


Never Let You Down I

by Crowgirl



Series: Scars Remind Us [23]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Hunt, character injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:41:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ongoing discussion, and ramifications thereof, between Dean and Castiel about the after-effects of Hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Let You Down I

XXIII.

Dean leaves Sam washing dishes and goes out onto the front porch. From a distance, the sound of the clinking plates and Sam murmuring along to whatever terrible bubblegum pop he has on the radio is almost soothing. If he stays within hearing of the music, Dean’s pretty sure his ears are going to start bleeding.

Bobby is gone for a couple of days: a simple haunting in the next state. Cas disappeared a couple of days before that, promising to be back by the end of the week.

Sam had insisted that they eat something other than take-out pizza; Dean got out of cooking duty only because a buddy of Bobby’s had showed up just after lunch needing some emergency work done on a tractor exhaust. Dean sits down on the top step, stretching his legs out, easing the cramps from being bent over that damned tractor all afternoon.

It’s been unseasonably cool today, a brief forerunner of what life will be like in a few months. It won’t even be really comfortable to sit out here after sunset and Dean wishes momentarily that he’d grabbed a thicker overshirt. As the sun sets behind the stacks of cars, Dean studies the patterns of dust on the Impala’s panels and frowns.

They’ve been at Bobby’s nearly two months now – if they stay much longer, he’s gonna be out here shovelling snow.

He’s not sure how he feels about this long period of inactivity. Sure, there had been that godawful thing with the cop. There had been something Bobby thought might be a wendigo a few counties further north, but it turned out to be a high school kid who should have been working for George Romero.

He can’t honestly say he’s not enjoying the break a little – but it feels lazy. John had never been one for taking breaks; “vacation” had pretty much been an unknown word in the Winchester household after Mary died. Somewhere out there right now all Hell’s breaking loose – possibly literally – and Dean’s sitting here thinking about having a second beer. Something about that feels wrong.

Dean scowls at his boots and wonders if he should go back inside – bug Sammy to find them a hunt. If they find something before Cas comes back, maybe he can talk the angel into coming with them. An extra pair of hands is always handy – and he likes having Cas around. The voices in his head don’t seem to scream so loud when the blue-eyed man is within arms’ reach.

Except, of course, when they scream louder.

Like any time he thinks about touching Cas or kissing him or--

He groans and rubs his hands over his head. _Fuck._

He stands up, meaning to go inside and see if Sam remembered to make the most important part of the meal when movement down the driveway catches his eye. Before he thinks, he goes for a gun he no longer regularly carries and curses himself.

Whoever’s coming is silhouetted directly against the setting sun and he can see no details. He steps off the porch and heads towards the Impala. Whatever or whoever it is is making pretty heavy weather of it, but zombies, revenants, and day-burned vampires all stagger like drunks. Or, of course, it could be Bobby’s nearest neighbor who has been known to tie one on and get lost in the cars trying to get to his own front door.

He puts his hand on the trunk catch and squints down the driveway. _C’mon, baby – show me your ugly little face and I’ll—_

‘Sam – _Sammy,_ get out here!’

* * *

At a run, he makes it to Cas just after the man’s knees buckle and he collapses into the dust of the road.

‘Jesus fuck--’ Dean skids onto his knees beside him, grabbing Castiel’s shoulder, then flinching back. Castiel is holding himself as though everything hurts and Dean tries to find somewhere to put his hands that won’t cause more pain. ‘Cas – what the fuck – what happened to you--’ He can see the edge of Castiel’s cheek and ear and there’s blood clotted in his dark hair.

Castiel looks up at him, clearly trying hard to bring Dean into focus and Dean bites hard on the inside of his cheek. The angel looks like he’s been on the losing end of a bar fight. There is dried blood on his forehead and in his hair and an ugly bruise on his temple. He’s curling into himself, arms pressed over his abdomen and Dean is praying there’s nothing worse than a cracked rib or a solid punch in the stomach.

‘Cas – Castiel, what happened to you?’ Dean ducks forward, trying to get those blue eyes to focus on him.

Castiel blinks at him and moves as if to speak, but spits a thick clot of blood instead.

‘Oh, Christ— _Sam!’_ Where the fuck is the sasquatch slowpoke when you need him. ‘Sammy!’

‘What!’ Sam appears at the door, a dishtowel in one hand and a sour look on his face. It takes him only a second or two to catch up to the problem and he covers the distance between the porch and Dean in record time. ‘What the hell happened to him!’

‘I don’t know – he won’t say – Cas, what happened?’ Dean tries to stroke the dark hair off Castiel’s forehead, but it’s glued in place with blood and Castiel flinches away from Dean’s hand.

There is someone or something out there Dean is going to have to kill. Slowly.

Castiel looks up at him, then at Sam, and slowly, stiffly, points to his throat and shakes his head.

A dim memory of a bad childhood cold stirs in the back of Dean’s mind. ‘What? you – you can’t talk?’

Castiel nods.

‘Why the fuck not!’

Cas tries to make some complicated gesture, then tries to speak again and spits another clot of blood.

‘Okay, okay, stop. Can you stand up?’ Dean pushes himself into a crouch and slips an arm around Castiel under his shoulders and Sam does the same on the other side. Between the two of them, they get Cas to his feet and start the long process of getting him to the house.

* * *

In the front hall, Dean pauses. ‘Cas – is there anything following you?’

Cas shakes his head. He’s pale, but he’s standing more or less on his own.

‘You’re sure?’

Castiel nods and, with a little difficulty, draws a finger across his throat.

‘Okay. Good.’

‘C’mon --’ Sam leaves Dean to support Castiel’s weight and ducks ahead to open a closed door. ‘Bring him into the kitchen. There’s better light there.’

* * *

Dean settles Castiel gently into the only kitchen chair with any kind of cushioning and kneels in front of him. Sam has vanished in search of medical supplies; Dean can hear him rooting around overhead.

Castiel is white to the hairline, the dried blood standing out on his pale skin like paint. His eyes are half-closed and he is breathing with some difficulty, as if having to concentrate on each breath.

Dean touches the back of his hand lightly, wishing there was some spell he could say or ritual he could perform and undo whatever had happened. ‘Cas, what the hell happened to you...’

Castiel opens his eyes a little wider and licks his lips, winces, and mimes writing with one stiff hand.

Dean glances around for paper and pencil, then sees Sam’s laptop stowed away on the far counter. ‘Wait a minute.’

By the time Sam comes in with an armful of supplies, the laptop is booting up and Castiel looks a little less dead. Sam dumps his armload on the table, turns a couple bottles back upright, and goes to the sink, soaking a clean towel in warm water. ‘Are his hands okay to type?’

Castiel holds up both hands and flexes his fingers. They are bloodstained and dirty and Dean can see narrow dark bruises below each wrist. Dean grits his teeth hard enough to make his jaw ache. ‘He says yes.’ He opens a blank text document and shoves the computer towards Cas. ‘Go for it.’

It takes Castiel a minute to get used to the keyboard, but he gets the hang of it fast. Dean can’t wait – he cranes around to read as Cas types. ‘Fuckin’ hell, Cas, you _told_ me you wouldn’t do that again!’

‘Do what? And stop typing for a minute.’ Sam gently tips Castiel’s head back and presses the warm, soaked towel over the bruise on his temple and the worst patch of blood in his hair. Castiel closes his eyes, a faint blush of color coming into his cheeks.

‘Demon hunting. _On his own.’_ Dean rocks back on his heels, glowering at Castiel.

‘Oh.’ Sam nods, but doesn’t seem surprised or as appalled as Dean would like him to be.

‘What – you _knew_ he was going?’ Dark suspicion blooms in Dean’s mind like clouds: it would be just like Sam to gang up on him with Cas, try to protect him from something they thought he couldn’t deal with – well, fuck that! He wasn’t gonna--

‘No.’ Sam lifts the towel and begins to wipe away the crust of blood and dirt.

 **Sam did not know about this.** Castiel types out the words with one finger and turns the screen towards Dean.

‘Well...whatever, but I’m _still_ pissed ‘cause why the fuck were you--’

Castiel is typing again, as quickly as he can with only one finger and Sam tilting his head back to try and smooth blood out of his hair. **They were near here. Looking for you. They laid a trap for me.**

‘Is that why you can’t talk?’

Castiel nods.

‘So what do we have to do to fix that?’ Sam asks, turning the towel inside out and wiping away bloody water from Cas’ forehead. ‘You’ve got a hell of a cut above your ear; I can’t bandage it without shaving your head, but if you leave it alone, I don’t think it’ll bleed any more.’

Castiel shakes his head, types again. **Nothing. My voice will return. The demon burned my throat. I can heal it.**

‘Fuck.’ Dean drops his head in his hands, digs at the base of his skull with his thumbs. He wants to hurt something so bad he can taste it. Cas is -- Cas is _his,_ goddamn it, and this sort of shit can _not_ be allowed to go on.

Someone taps him on the shoulder and he looks up. Cas is looking down at him, expression unreadable, while Sam cleans a constellation of lesser cuts on his throat. Castiel points to the laptop screen. **I would not have broken my word. They were very strong and they surprised me.**

‘They. How many?’

Castiel holds up a hand.

‘Five. Fuck. Why didn’t you just – Grace ‘em to death?’

Castiel shakes his head, earning a grumble of disapproval from Sam, and pulls the laptop back to himself. A few minutes quick typing and he spins it back.

‘Let me see your hands, Cas.’ Sam squats down by his side while Dean reads: **They laid a trap for me. You were right – word has gotten around about the other demons I bound. They bound me.**

‘They bound you.’ He looks up at Castiel. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘Dean, shut up for two seconds and help me out, okay?’ Sam gives him a warning glance and Dean looks up at Cas.

The brief blush of healthy color the warm towel had brought into his face is ebbing again and Cas is swaying slightly where he sits. He is trying to steady himself with his free hand against the table, but it isn’t working well. He seems to be having some problems keeping his eyes open and Dean feels a crippling rush of shame. As Castiel reaches out towards the keyboard again, Dean gently slides the machine out of his reach. He takes Cas’ other hand and the next warm towel and begins slowly, carefully wiping blood from Castiel’s cold, slim fingers.

* * *

Castiel watches the back of Dean’s neck, feeling more trapped now than when the demons had him chained. If he could only explain, then the brothers – then _Dean_ – would see why he had not broken his word.

The demons had been prepared, waiting – there was nothing he could do but try to fight free and he could not.

He had been totally unprepared for the demon to vacate his host and try to possess him.

Being encompassed by the cloud of black, blinding smoke brought him as close as he feels he has ever been to comprehending what humans meant by _terror._

He understood within a few moments that the demon’s intent was not to wrest his vessel away from him; rather, to do him such damage that he would be unable to speak, unable either to attack them or to defend himself.

* * *

It takes the brothers, working in concert, the best part of an hour to clean Castiel’s wounds to Sam’s satisfaction. By the end of it, Castiel is sitting shirtless and shoeless, a blanket wrapped over his legs and another draped over the chair behind his shoulders. There are bruises blossoming over his chest and back, a particularly nasty one just over his right ribs. He has sworn to Sam, via typescript, that the worst wound on his legs is a vicious, ragged-edged cut on his right ankle.

‘What was it?’ Dean asked, not really wanting to know.

 **Chain,** is all Castiel types back.

Now Dean sits back on his heels, wiping his bloodstained hands on a damp towel, wishing for something he could punch. He can feel the tension in the muscles of his arms and back, a slight tremble that he tries to get rid of with a deep backwards stretch. It doesn’t quite work but he feels the tremor of adrenaline recede slightly.

Sam stands up, groaning softly, and drops a handful of bandage wrappers on the table. He regards the wreckage thoughtfully. ‘I’ll have to go to town tomorrow. Stock Bobby back up.’

‘Yeah...’ Dean pushes himself to his feet, looks down at Castiel. The angel has his eyes closed and Dean can almost see the veins in his skin, traceries of blue and green beneath the pale surface. Gently, he leans forward and pulls the blanket around Castiel’s shoulders. Startled, the smaller man jerks up, eyes suddenly wide and dark. ‘Hey, it’s okay – just me.’

Castiel stares at him for a minute, opens his mouth as if to say something, then nods and sinks back. He winces as his shoulders touch the chair back and Dean is going to spend the rest of his _life_ tracking down demons if he has to.

‘Can you stand, Cas?’ Dean steps up beside him, offering himself as support, crutch, whatever Castiel might need.

Cas looks down at his feet for a minute and seems to consider the question then, stiffly, pushes the blanket off his knees onto the floor and, holding the edge of the table for balance, gets to his feet. He sways, but stands, catching Dean’s forearm and steadying himself.

Sam has gone around to the sink to wash his hands, but turns back, dripping. ‘Wait a minute – I’ll help you get upstairs--’

‘S’okay, Sammy. I got it.’ Dean slips his arm around Castiel’s shoulders and helps him turn towards the stairs.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "When I'm Gone," 3 Doors Down, _Away from the Sun._


End file.
